and Don Carlos Mendez y Benito.

The hour for the funeral was fixed at four P.M. It never took place.
Down at the Picayune Tier on the river bank there was, about two o'clock
that same day, a slight commotion, and those who stood aimlessly about a
small, neat schooner, said she was "seized." At four there suddenly
appeared before the Café des Exilés a squad of men with silver crescents
on their breasts--police officers. The old cottage sat silent with
closed doors, the crape hanging heavily over the funeral notice like a
widow's veil, the little unseen garden sending up odors from its hidden
censers, and the old weeping-willow bending over all.

"Nobody here?" asks the leader.

The crowd which has gathered stares without answering.

As quietly and peaceably as possible the officers pry open the door.
They enter, and the crowd pushes in after. There are the two coffins,
looking very heavy and solid, lying in state but unguarded.

The crowd draws a breath of astonishment. "Are they going to wrench the
tops off with hatchet and chisel?"

Bap, rap, rap; wrench, rap, wrench. Ah! the cases come open.

"Well kept?" asks the leader flippantly.

"Oh, yes," is the reply. And then all laugh.

One of the lookers-on pushes up and gets a glimpse within.